Category Archives: Nature

I know, I know…lately this space has been more blahg than blog. I feel bad that I haven’t gotten to sit down and write, but it’s been one thing after another, and I find I’m spending more time in the car than on “land” (I liken my driving these days to the long sea voyages our ancestors once took. In fact, I’m considering putting a “widow’s walk” on top of my house, so my family can watch out for my approach from I-95—“Thar she blows!”).

It’s hard to write with both hands on the wheel—well ok, one hand on the wheel and the other around a Starbucks Chai Tea Latte—and I’m pretty sure Blogging While Driving is illegal in Connecticut. I don’t want to end up as the example in some grainy public service commercial where I and my car are seen careening through an intersection or into a ditch and my last post—“I know, I know…lately this space has been more blahg than blog”—flashes on the screen with the tag line “Was It Worth It?” I guess that would all depend on how many “Likes” I’d get.

But I digress. My head’s in such a spin that I keep having this recurring nightmare where Ben Carson and Donald Trump are vying for the top spot on the Republican ticket—I know, crazy, right?

Wait? What? Seriously? Next you’re going to tell me there’s a new Star Wars movie coming out. Ha! Oh. I see. I have been out of circulation a long time.

Well, while I reintegrate myself into the absurd side of life, I thought you might enjoy these beautiful autumn scenes from Connecticut. The drought we had this summer produced an awesome fall.

Autumn reflections near the Waterford Library.

A fiery maple on the Connecticut College campus.

A misty autumn afternoon at Mystic Seaport.

Three pumpkins greet visitors at Mystic Seaport.

Fall is the perfect time to take a solitary beach walk in the purplish twilight.

I know I rag on Hollywood, Florida a lot, but it does have beautiful autumn sunsets.

The Rocket Man must be over the super moon. First Elton John was knighted by Queen Elizabeth, and now this! Recently, James Darwin Thomas, a professor at Nova Southeastern University, discovered a new species of shrimp, and noting its large “appendage” (now, now…), instead of thinking oxymoron, immediately thought of Elton John. Speaking through his publisher, Pensoft, Thomas revealed his inspiration. “I have listened to his music in my lab during my entire scientific career. So when this unusual crustacean with a greatly enlarged appendage appeared under my microscope after a day of collecting, an image of the shoes Elton John wore as the Pinball Wizard came to mind.”

Photo by James Thomas

Not everyone is so lucky as to have a species named for them. But what if they were? Here are some suggestions for newly found creatures and their human counterparts:

1.

No more twiddling your thumbs on Tuesday nights. The muppets have made a triumphant return to TV. Kermit is as crotchety as ever, and Gonzo still gesticulates with his noodley arms. Oops!! Before this entry is deleted by the censors, I couldn’t help but think of a certain favorite frog when I saw this:

Every time I turn on the TV or read the newspaper, I see Donald Trump. So when I saw this bizarre formation with its familiar curvature on my computer screen, an image of Trump’s hair naturally came to mind. Plus the law that Donald Trump must be mentioned everywhere, as i mentioned in my last post.

Photo courtesy popularmechanics.com

Photo by Michael Vadon

3.

Apparently, there is another law that states that Benedict Cumberbatch must be appear in all visual media. So, whether “tis nobler to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune” or not, this recently discovered stick insect is getting his day in the spotlight.

Photo courtesy of Royal Belgian Institute of Natural Sciences

Photo by GabboT

4.

The Pinocchio frog has not been given a scientific name yet. Why not just call it Ted Cruz?

Photo by Tim Laman National Geographic

Photo by Gage Skidmore

5.

When I learned that John Boehner, Speaker of the House, was retiring, I thought there could be no more fitting farewell than to name this sea creature after him.

What can I say? Ticks dig me. It’s been this way as long as I can remember. I suppose my story is a bit cliché, but I’ll let you be the judge.

I was discovered at the age of three in a little town called Hollywood. Yes, that Hollywood! Is there any other? California, you say? Huh! But I digress. I was in the yard, romping around the coconut palms and through the croton bushes when I was approached by an agent looking for new blood. I was sucked in by the idea that I had something special, something that set me apart from other people, something—dare I say it?—in the very life source that flowed through my veins.

Before I knew it, the bug had gotten under my skin. I was the host of the town— living large, the meals and drinks always on me. Soon, not only ticks but everyone wanted me. Sure, it was attractive at first; I felt needed, as if I truly had something to offer. Admirers swarmed around me everywhere I went. A buzz of excitement erupted whenever I stepped outside.

But over the years I discovered I couldn’t satisfy everyone. I took to staying indoors, covered up when I went out. Then the whining started. I couldn’t escape its insistent droning in my ears, reminding me always, always that I had to perform, had to give my followers what they wanted—the little parasites. I tried shooing them away, but it didn’t work. They only flew at me with greater force, poking and prodding. And then they started on my children. We couldn’t go to the playground, walk to school or plant a garden like other families. The pests were relentless; they were eating us alive. I even employed a SWAT team, but our protection was only hit-and-miss.

I was drained and had the scars to show it. I decided to quit. I dropped out of sight, and the clingers-on forgot about me. At least, I thought they did. Recently, I felt that old, familiar itch. I returned to my roots, plowing the fertile soil of my comeback and planting seeds I hope will flower and bear fruit. As I’ve toiled I’ve reflected on those long-ago days. Had they really been that bad? Hadn’t the wounds healed?

The answer has come swiftly. I’ve been back in the Lyme light for only a week and already the ticks are in my hair, clutching at my arms and legs, sucking up to me. In the intervening years, though, I’ve learned a few things, and this time I’m DEETermined to dump these ticks before they burrow too deep.

I never thought I’d be one of those people. You know, the ones who leave their outdoor Christmas decorations up all year round so that when you drive by you wonder with a shudder what it looks like on the inside: Are there elves on all the shelves? Is an avalanche of Saint Nicks standing in perpetual jollity around every corner? Do tinderbox trees bowed with dusty ornaments dominate each room?

But this year, I am chagrined to say, I have joined their ranks. My Christmas wreath still hangs on my front door, and festive candy canes, packages, and snowmen continue to cling to the sliding-glass back door. This deplorable state of affairs is not entirely my fault, but the result of several unforeseen circumstances colliding with a couple of Connecticut quirks.

First, Connecticut has an unofficially official wreath removal date of Valentine’s Day, when Cupid shoots arrows not of love but of intense cabin fever, which turns our thoughts toward spring with every tiny thaw. But this year the thaws never came. The chill of February turned into the frost of March, which became the pall of April. Heck, the trees never even sprouted leaves until the third week of May!

Second, no one in Connecticut uses their front door for anything but welcoming trick-or-treaters and—from late November to December 24—as a package drop. Even this last use is fading into oblivion as delivery people no longer have time for the long sprint from the driveway to the front door. Now, they carefully lean the package up against the garage door, where you are sure to…run over it when you back out of the garage. Seems a bit passive aggressive, no?

Since I’ve been preoccupied with other things lately, February then March then April came and went without my ever giving the front door a second thought. In fact, it was only a week or two ago that I walked through the foyer and saw a shadow darkening the frosted windows of our door. With a start of embarrassment, I realized this foreboding shape was not a salesman, a tract-carrying religious caller, a political canvasser, or even a cookie-selling girl scout, but my own bedraggled wreath.

Quickly, I swung the door opened and lifted my hand to unhook it. When I did, though, I brushed aside the still vibrant red bow and discovered:

I give this mom props for finding a clever hiding place for her nest.

So the wreath stays—even though it’s so brittle it might spontaneously burst into flame and its piney aroma is as concentrated as a room air freshener—until these little guys are out of the nest and on their own.

What about the clings on the back door?

If the door does not sport these Jello-like decorations, the starlings, preening and swooping through the air, knock themselves silly flying into what they perceive to be a safe haven or receptive friends—not unlike Kanye West imploding at the Grammy/Billboard Music/MTV Video Music/American Music Awards….This year, though, I missed buying the spring clings, so the holiday ones stay in place until the summer ones appear in the stores.

Maybe I have been neglectful this year, but to all those who judge, I say, “Bah Humbug!”